Yeah you know what time it is — the leaves have turned all those romantic colors in a Bob Ross painting (dab a little of that happy yellow ochre here…yeah, just dab it); the study cards have all been turned in and you are starting to ignore the first 400-page reading of the semester; the balmy 80-degree days have given way to the pleasant-and-not-yet-unbearable New England chill, and you can no longer feel your toes while wearing flip-flops; the brain-eating amoebas have completed their summer reign of terror (that is the most emailed story on the Boston Globe); and the narcissists are back at ego-stroking academy (another gem from the aforementioned paragon of journalistic excellence — Harvard folks should check out the photo slideshow); the sun no longer lights your dinner table from across the dining hall in beams of golden dusk, and instead the creeping unease of pre-seasonal affective disorder is interfering with your concentration and has lulled you into fits of procrastination writing to an imaginary audience.

Yes, it’s, um, autumn.